Breathless Hush
by celia princessa
Summary: It's a humid night, and Roger just plain needs someone. Mark happens to just plain be there.


The fitted sheet stuck damply to Mark's pale skin, its looser twin swimming forlornly at the end of the mattress. New York City was hell when it was cold, and even worse when it was pushing ninety degrees in the shade of the already baked concrete buildings and parking garages. And Christ, the humidity. No amount of fans in the loft apartment he shared with Roger Davis (and sometimes Tom Collins) could keep you dry from your own sweat..especially since the struggling filmmaker and songwriter only had three to their names.

Mark turned over and groped in the quasi-dark for his glasses. Alphabet City, with its all-night diners, clubs, and constant flow of traffic, was never really dark. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, which in turn was wiped on his striped boxers and white undershirt. He could hear Roger stirring in their kitchen, probably for a glass of water. Figuring he had the right idea, Mark slid off his bed to do the same.

As his eyes adjusted, Mark saw Rodger's shirtless frame in the kitchen. The filmmaker studied his best friend's body with grim reality. His skin was paler, his one muscled physique had thinned out, and even his sleep-tousled hair was a duller blonde than when they had first met. Was it the heroin addiction and then the subsequent withdrawls that had done this? Was it the stress of just living in New York City? Or was it...Mark stopped his brain from even touching the three letters: HIV.

Roger turned around, and his face looked almost gaunt. His eyes widened in slight surprise. "Hey," he said, his voice still hoarse from sleep. "I thought you'd want something to drink." Only then did Mark see the two plastic tumblers of water in his hands. "Oh," Mark said, his own voice rough. "Thanks." The musician handed him a cup, then headed towards the couch. Mark took a gulp of the cool liquid, then joined Roger. After a brief pause, they discussed trivial things. Mark recalled the letter Collins had written them, and Roger talked about a date with Mimi. Then there was another pause, longer this time. Roger cleared his throat.

"Mark," he said, and Mark took note of the slight quiver in his voice. "Make me talk." The bespectacled blonde was slightly taken aback. "About what?" he asked, although he knew very well what about. Again, he studied Roger. The musician's palms rested on his bare knees, which jutted out from his black boxers. He looked down, afraid to make eye contact with his best friend. But all of a sudden, Mark craved eye contact. Suddenly, he felt that it would make this discussion easier. But in the four AM silence, Roger still stared down at the cement floor. So Mark did something different.

Mark reached out.

He brought Roger's face to where the two artists faced each other, then dropped his hand. His roommate's eyes suddenly flooded his senses, giving him courage and a firm voice. "What are you afraid of?" Mark said in an even tone he almost didn't recognize as his own. There was a beat, then Roger broke. He collapsed, his head on Mark's shoulder. Fears poured out—a variety of things. Some were old, a ton were new, but the same one kept surfacing over and over again. Despite dealing with the deaths of April and Angel, and his own heroin withdrawls (which often left him begging for death instead), Roger could not stomach the fact that he would die. Never mind that Collins had been living with full-blown AIDS for four years now. Ignore the fact that his vivacious girlfriend still lived like there was no day but today, and she remained HIV-positive. He himself could keel over any minute.

In the middle of a frantic stream of babbled fears, Mark shushed him. "Roger," he began. Roger's red-rimmed eyes looked into Mark's. "Shut up and live." The musician was stunned. Hell, Mark was stunned. It wasn't often the normally empathetic young man spoke so bluntly. In a newly hydrated daze, Mark stood up to go put away his glass. He ran his glasses under the scant stream of water sliding out of the kitchen faucet, and began to polish them with a dish towel.

But something stopped him. Mark blinked in the dim light, trying to figure out what it was. He was being held firmly from behind, limbs dewy with sweat encasing him. A stubbly cheek rested on his almost bare shoulder, and a voice gruffly thanked him. Mark set his glasses down on the counter, and let his hands rest on top of a rougher pair that were clasped together on his chest. It was Roger.

Mark turned around, his vision blurred without his glasses, and the two men stood there, locked in a secure embrace. It was far too hot to even think about touching, but the situation was too fitting to even think about not touching. Roger needed to hold onto Mark, and Mark hadn't been touched in so long that he'd forgotten what human contact felt like. Mark suddenly found his mouth on his roommate's. Neither pulled away, instead they kissed hungrily as if the other would vanish at any one moment. Roger's kisses were firm and assertive despite his shaky emotional state; whereas Mar's were a little off rhythm and almost sloppy. The two paused for a moment, and Roger drew in a deep breath. Mark let out a giddy laugh, his own air coming in short, staccatto breaths. Roger chuckled softly, and handed Mark his glasses.

"It's late," he stated simply. The other man nodded, pushing his glasses onto his face. "Yeah," Mark said in a small voice, his breathing calmer by now. The time had to be pushing five AM at this point. There was another beat. Mark stood there, uncertain of what to do next. Roger flashed a smile. "Stay with me tonight," the sandy-haired guitarist said. Mark was puzzled. "Roger we live toge—oh." His pale cheeks flushed darker. "Oh!" he said. Roger broke into a full-fledged grin and playfully shoved Mark towards his bedroom. "Come on, I don't mean it like that!" he said, following. Mark laughed as he lay down on Roger's sheet-less full-sized bed. "I know," he said as the other young man lowered himself down on the mattress.

The two lie there, hardly touching except for their lightly entwined fingers by their heads. Occasionally, they shared a slow, languid kiss between them, but it was really far too hot to do much else. Drowsily, Mark removed his glasses and let his eyes weigh themselves down, finally finding sleep. He felt a pair of lips press tenderly just under his ear lobe. "Thanks," Roger said again; this time softly into Mark's ear. "You're welcome," Mark murmured sleepily, his eyes never even bothering to open. Roger waited a beat. "And this isn't like...uh...a thing..." he tried to explain helplessly, but eventually just stopped. "I just needed you tonight," he finished up.

Mark turned over on his side to face him, his eyes opening reluctantly, but offering a sleepy smile. "I know," he said. "There's only us." Roger reached to touch Mark's face, his finger calloused from his guitar strings. "Only tonight," he said quietly. Mark closed his eyes and rolled over onto his other side, but taking Roger's hand with him. Roger smiled to himself, and finally closed his own eyes, letting his last sight before he drifted off be Mark's blonde hair in the moonlight.


End file.
